Design For Mankindhttp://designformankind.com
A New-Fashioned LifestyleTue, 06 Dec 2016 10:31:38 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.6.1Currently Beehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/vUtJ7K527JE/
http://designformankind.com/2016/12/4-year-old/#respondTue, 06 Dec 2016 10:31:38 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43360A paraphrased interview with the 4-year-old on a winter afternoon walk: Me: Hey, Bee. Bee: I’m Rosebud right now. You can call me that if you want. I’m going to go ahead and call you Erin because there are just too many Moms to sort this whole thing out and there’s only one Erin, so […]]]>

A paraphrased interview with the 4-year-old on a winter afternoon walk:

Me: Hey, Bee.

Bee: I’m Rosebud right now. You can call me that if you want. I’m going to go ahead and call you Erin because there are just too many Moms to sort this whole thing out and there’s only one Erin, so I’m going to just call you that. But you can call me Rosebud.

Me: Hey, Rosebud.

Bee: Hey, Erin!

Me: I like your outfit.

Bee: Thank you (twirls)! It’s my team’s Christmas underform.

Me: Christmas uniform?

Bee: Same.

Me: Well, it’s lovely. Who’s your team?

Bee: Thank you (twirls again)! Well, there’s Penny. And Elvis. And Chris and Martin, but Martin isn’t allowed to play because he keeps spraining his toe again and again and again, and like, his mom said no more.

Me: Oh goodness. What sport is it? Like, how does he keep spraining his toe? Same toe, even?

Bee: Yes. Isn’t that strange? He is so so strange. We don’t really play sports on my team. We’re just a team. So we wear a Christmas underform.

Me: Christmas uniform?

Bee: Saaaaaaaaaame.

Me: Well, I like it. Can you tell me about it?

Bee: Well, I like the ballerina part (twirl) because if we have to put on a Christmas show – like, sometimes our sport is just doing shows again and again and again – I’ll already be dressed and I won’t have to change in the gas station bathroom and have germs. And I have a bow tie because I’m Rosebud, and my dog is Rosebud, too, and we always wear matching bow ties on our selves so that if we lose each other (twirl) we can look for the bow ties and other people can look for the bow ties (twirl) and then we’ll be found with bow ties on (twirl), plus bow ties are so so cute, don’t you think? (Twirl, twirl, twirl.)

Me: I do.

Bee: Do you want to know the best part of my Christmas underform, Erin? (Another twirl.)

Me: Sure do, Rosebud.

Bee: Our hat hides secret pistachios so we can have a snack and our moms don’t even know we’re having a snack and we don’t even have to ask permission, we just lift up our hat and out come the pistachios and our moms don’t even know!

Me: That seems…

Bee: I know! So silly! And then, wanna know what we do with the shells? It’s a surprise.

Me: Well…

Bee: THEY’RE IN OUR SHOES! I know. I can’t even believe it either. We call our shoes our “secret shell devices.” They get the job done, you know. In the surprise way.

Me: Well, what does the vest do?

Bee: Nothing. It’s just a vest.

Me: Oh.

Bee: You can be so so strange, Erin.

Me: And that’s it? That’s the official Christmas uniform?

Bee: Well, there’s a shirt, too, because you have to wear shirts if you’re on public property because you can’t have a Dress Pass. (Editor’s note: Tresspass?) And socks. But you can really wear whatever socks you want, because there are some things you just have to make your own decides about, you know. I mean, I can’t decide your socks because I’m busy with all my other decides so you just have to decide your own socks.

Me: Totally.

Bee: But you should decide these, I think. I mean, if I’m gonna help you decide I’m gonna decide these.

Me: Thank you for the tip. Well, Rosebud, you look all ready for Christmas.

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/12/4-year-old/feed/0http://designformankind.com/2016/12/4-year-old/A Brighter Futurehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/nSJvCuMtq7s/
http://designformankind.com/2016/12/a-brighter-future/#commentsSat, 03 Dec 2016 12:00:44 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43337Mom? Can God turn himself into a wall? The question arrives from a backseat littered with cashew crumbs and flashcards atop CDs and board books. We’re on our way to a family reunion in southern Indiana, and I know we’re getting close because the hills make our bellies jump. What do you mean? I ask […]]]>

Mom?Can God turn himself into a wall?

The question arrives from a backseat littered with cashew crumbs and flashcards atop CDs and board books. We’re on our way to a family reunion in southern Indiana, and I know we’re getting close because the hills make our bellies jump.

What do you mean? I ask 4-year-old Bee.

Well, like if there’s a wall in the road and it’s really big, can God turn himself into an even bigger wall with a giant hole in it so you can just go through it that way instead?

I’ve never really thought of that, I say.

You really should think of that, she says.

—

And so, the election. I’m thinking of that.

I will start by saying that I have never been one to place stock in our federal government’s (a) capability and (b) perspective to implement massive change on a local level. I believe in doing small things with great love. I believe in mowing your neighbor’s lawn. In visiting your grandmother’s nursing home. I believe in corner coffee shops and good deeds, in smiling at strangers, over-tipping the pregnant waitress.

Our president elect does not hinder me from doing any of the above, and so, I will continue.

And yet.

This isn’t about me. This isn’t about what I do, or what I believe, or how I plan to implement change in my own small ways.

This is about each other.

This is about an even bigger wall with a giant hole in it.

—

We can no longer ignore the gap, can we? We can no longer deny the fact that we call ourselves good citizens, that we brake for bunnies and pay our taxes, but that a large portion of our country still feels unsafe, forgotten, misunderstood.

We cannot help the marginalized if we do not see the margins in which they live.
We are only infringing if we know nothing of the fringe.

—

After the family reunion, after hearing stories in celebration of my late grandfather, after winding through the back roads of middle America and chasing the sun, we stop for gas at a roadside station just as the night falls.

We head inside for a bathroom break (Bee) and coffee break (me), and as I pay for a medium dark roast, the silver-haired cashier whispers to me: Hug your girl extra tight. It’s a scary world out there.

I smile at her.

—

Bee used to be scared of sand. On a trip to the west coast one spring, Ken and I find ourselves piggy-backing her down the winding stairs to an open pier as we greet a wide stretch of shimmering water, terrain the color of her hair. I sit her diapered bottom onto the beach and – in a flash – her eyes find tears, her feet recoil. She kicks, fights with fear.

I pick her up. I hold her. We kneel down. I let her touch the sand, hold it in a fist, then open her hand so the grains can run through past her pinky.

We can hug our kids extra tight, sure. We can choose to dismiss fear, we can pretend the world’s not so scary after all. We can nod as the masses form snap judgments and airbrushed arguments. We can avoid the margins entirely, ignore the seas of people who feel choked down by waves. We can keep talking at each other, rather than to each other. We can squint in our dark Ray-Bans, point to the very edge where sand meets water, assume we know more about ways of life as we peer from our responsible-looking lifeguard towers.

Or we can kneel down. We can reach out and introduce ourselves, grain by grain, in all our complexities and hurt and pain.

Bee, meet sand.
Sand, meet Bee.

We can move toward discomfort with our children. Watch them make a fist, then learn how to open their hands.

—

As the moon rises, Bee and I get back in the car with fresh coffee and empty bladders. We return to the road, to the hills, to the cornfields and speed limits. She asks me about the woman at the filling station, asks me about what she said.

Why is the world scary? she wants to know.

And I tell her the story of her and the sand, of when she was just a baby. How some people are scared of sand and some are scared of water and both are valid fears. How the best thing we can do is sometimes introduce ourselves. Say hello. Ask questions. Listen.

What’s it like for you?How big is your wall? The giant hole?How can we find a way through it together?

Decide we’re pretty nice once we get to know each other.

I can do that, Mom! Bee says. I’m really really good at questions.

(She is.)

—

And I suppose that’s how we can help, for now, for today. We can train our children to ask questions. We can teach them how to listen, to introduce themselves to one another. We can raise our future generation to think critically with kindness and humility, without defense.

We can show them the walls we’ve mistakenly built. The giant holes in our arguments.

We can loosen our fists and open our hands.

And we can walk through together, to a brighter future, to the other side.

—

In the spirit of moving toward discomfort, here are a few practical introductions we can make with and for our children:

p.s. My friends Erin, Alexandra , Catherine and Jen are also exploring ways they’re planning a brighter future for their children today. Feel free to peer at their perspectives, too!

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/12/a-brighter-future/feed/9http://designformankind.com/2016/12/a-brighter-future/Here, I Made Thishttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/3YOTBA1Q3ow/
http://designformankind.com/2016/12/shop-responsibly/#commentsFri, 02 Dec 2016 11:01:34 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43313Can I show you guys something? — Last spring, my friend Carly emailed me in a flurry of exclamation points: Style collaboration. We’re thinking scarf. Tassels! Monochromatic! You design it. Ethically made, of course. Want to come to India? Meet the makers? Send it out with CAUSEBOX this winter? Life offers no shortage of surprises, […]]]>

Can I show you guys something?

—

Last spring, my friend Carly emailed me in a flurry of exclamation points:

Style collaboration. We’re thinking scarf. Tassels! Monochromatic! You design it. Ethically made, of course. Want to come to India? Meet the makers? Send it out with CAUSEBOX this winter?

Life offers no shortage of surprises, you know? One moment you find yourself in the kitchen chopping potatoes and the next moment you’ve sent yourself to India.

We visit the looms of Panipat to watch our scarves transform from thread to fabric. We see a happy weaver motion to us. Here, I made this.

We visit Shirarm Paper Factory, the no-waste facility that provides recycled paper for our labels. We hear Ramji say, Here. I made this.

We visit Priti, the beloved artist who ethically printed our labels onto Ramji’s paper. She offers us a sample of the finished tag, her eyes twinkling with joy. Here. I made this.

We visit Jyoti, the gifted designer who works tirelessly to employ and mentor local women. We see Jyoti smile as she holds up the sewn scarf in her workshop, as she proudly displays each tassel, each line, each stitch. Here, I made this.

—

And here I am, saying the same to you.

—

So, of course, when I say Here, I made this, what I really mean is that Here, we made this – each of us, offering our busy hands to serve a collective purpose.

Me, a writer, using agile fingers to publish posts, to string sentences, to tell stories, to offer love.Tribe Alive, using agile fingers to design products, to email questions, to manufacture ethically, to offer love.CAUSEBOX, using agile fingers to gather inspired goods, to prepare shipments, to introduce socially responsible products, to offer love.
Our dear friends in Jaipur, using agile fingers to tear seams, to stitch beauty, to dye fabric, to offer love.

And you, of course.
Using agile fingers to send encouragement, to share support, to spread kindness, to offer love.

—

I didn’t make this.We did.

—

Our design will ship out in the winter CAUSEBOX, just a few weeks away. It’ll be filled to the brim with a slew of goodies from other makers as well — each offering their own version of love in the form of coffee, or chocolate, or jewelry, or beauty products.

It’s a shared effort, a secret whisper: Here, we made this for a good cause. Here, we made this for change.

Here, we made this for us all.

—

If you’d like to subscribe to CAUSEBOX ($55), head here! Or, to order a scarf ($78) only, visit Tribe Alive here. Thanks for making this with me, friends. Here’s to us all.

SaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSave

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/12/shop-responsibly/feed/2http://designformankind.com/2016/12/shop-responsibly/Make Roomhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/rESoy00FcDk/
http://designformankind.com/2016/11/holiday-cards-2/#commentsWed, 30 Nov 2016 16:49:16 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43258Months ago, in the pink city, my Indian friend Raj offers me a stick of kulfi from his favorite street vendor. Oh, I couldn’t, I say, still digesting our afternoon plates of curry and naan, cookies and chai. I’m stuffed! Not so, says Raj, as he pays the vendor, hands me the ice cream. You […]]]>

Months ago, in the pink city, my Indian friend Raj offers me a stick of kulfi from his favorite street vendor.

Oh, I couldn’t, I say, still digesting our afternoon plates of curry and naan, cookies and chai. I’m stuffed!

Not so, says Raj, as he pays the vendor, hands me the ice cream. You make room for things you love.

—

In my current season of life, I’m stuffed. There is a new baby to welcome into our world, a new book to welcome into yours. There are a million questions to field within my own four walls, a handful of which I can answer: What’s for dinner? Did you write the check? Can you pick up goat milk while you’re out? When’s the book tour? Will you pass the salt? Mom, how does a cloud know it’s a cloud?

I am stuffed, in the good way, of course. You make room for things you love.

—

I’ve had a long-standing, self-imposed rule about holiday cards. It’s simple, and sometimes not so simple:

Write something that matters.

Last winter, I hand-wrote long letters to old friends, staying up until the wee hours of the night as a fire kindled nearby. Red wine, Bing Crosby, the dogs snoring beneath the dining room table. I shared memories and dreams and half-regrets, none short on sentiment, none short on space.

This year, could I do the same?

—

OK, I say to Raj as the cars buzz by, as he reaches into his pocket to pay the street vendor. I’ll take just a bite.

Yes! he says, excitedly. Now we understand each other!

The kulfi feels cool to the touch on a hot afternoon. It looks rich, refreshing.

It tastes incredible.

—

I am remembering this.

I am remembering that big efforts are a series of small steps, tiny bites. I am remembering that a little bit goes a long way. I am remembering that space is perception. (That life is, too.)

I am learning that, when our days gets overwhelming, when things feel stuffed, when long holiday letters seem nearly impossible, there is room to be made.

The card is full of photos and musings; there is little space left in the margins for a message. But I know better. You make room for things you love.

A postscript for each, then.

You made my book what it was. Thank you.

Remember when you taught Bee to whistle? She hasn’t stopped!

Your chili recipe is still leaving its legacy. Merry Christmas!

Just a bite.

—

Ken’s grandmother used to offer two pieces of advice – in kitchens and in life:

When making pasta, never forget to salt the boiling water.

Always leave a postscript.

—

And I think what she was getting at is precisely what Raj knew, what many of us know, what we are continually forgetting in a season of what can sometimes feel like overwhelm, on a holiday where we’re often rushed and frenzied:

Make room. There is space.

For a pinch of salt, a slice of kulfi, a simple postscript.

For something that matters.

Or more precisely, for someone you love.

This essay was written for Tiny Prints; thank you for reading! Wishing you many postscripts this holiday season.

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/11/holiday-cards-2/feed/17http://designformankind.com/2016/11/holiday-cards-2/Slices of Life // 08http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/8sJr-jRrHhM/
http://designformankind.com/2016/11/slices-of-life-08/#commentsMon, 28 Nov 2016 09:41:12 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43309Ed Emberley on loan from the library; thumbprint hedgehogs, caterpillars, fish. // Arnold Loechner Mouse, the field mouse Ken trapped in the garage who was accidentally domesticated after a satisfying meal of shredded carrots. (He’s since been set “free” in the woods, was last seen frolicing through Bee and Ken’s legs in a shimmering patch […]]]>

Ed Emberley on loan from the library; thumbprint hedgehogs, caterpillars, fish. // Arnold Loechner Mouse, the field mouse Ken trapped in the garage who was accidentally domesticated after a satisfying meal of shredded carrots. (He’s since been set “free” in the woods, was last seen frolicing through Bee and Ken’s legs in a shimmering patch of sunlight. “Letting him go was harder for me than it was for her,” big-hearted Ken says, surprising approximately no one.) // Coat season, finally. // Handmade flashcards from Bee’s sweet Chinese teacher; learning moon, Jupiter. // Bob books success; we’ve got a reader on our hands!

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/11/slices-of-life-08/feed/2http://designformankind.com/2016/11/slices-of-life-08/From Me to Youhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/qMe-89B8HN8/
http://designformankind.com/2016/11/chasing-slow/#commentsFri, 18 Nov 2016 09:00:29 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=42606A journal entry from months ago: April 30th, 12:04am. The laptop glows in our darkened kitchen and I hear only muffled sounds – small swells of laughter from the basement as Ken hosts a late-night birthday party for friends, Bernie re-positioning underneath my chair into the shape of a question mark, the dining room clock […]]]>

A journal entry from months ago:

April 30th, 12:04am. The laptop glows in our darkened kitchen and I hear only muffled sounds – small swells of laughter from the basement as Ken hosts a late-night birthday party for friends, Bernie re-positioning underneath my chair into the shape of a question mark, the dining room clock ticking, ticking, ticking.

I turned in my final book edits tonight.

I don’t know if it was ready, but I was ready.

—

It’s hard to change what’s changing you. It’s hard to know when you’re finished with something so big, so personal. There are always cuts to make. There are always sentences to fix. There are a million ways to do better.

At some point, I suppose you just have to accept that it’s fine. That it’s better than fine – that it’s good, even. That it will never be perfect, and wrinkling your brow over switchbacks/timelines/commas/colons will do nothing but delay the gift you wanted to give in the first place.

The gift you wanted to receive, too.

—

In truth, I am terrible at self-promotion. I still hold this oddly-placed belief that what will be will be, that these things work themselves out, that whoever is meant to read my words will read my words with or without any prodding on my part.

Writing the book changed me a little, and anything else feels like greed.

But.

—

Is this just fear speaking? Is this my mind twisting itself into a thinly-veiled version of humility? Is this my heart’s way of protecting itself, of forming a barrier of pride, a hardened shell of protection, a shrug of the shoulders, a Canadian ‘Eh?’

So what if no one reads it, eh?

—

Writing this book was hard. It was personal and (here comes a widely over-used word:) vulnerable, and I simply don’t know how else to explain it. I was raw afterward. I am raw afterward.

I don’t know if I did this story justice, if I gave my story justice. I don’t know if I chose the right words, the right format, the right perspective, the right structure.

But I like it, and I’m sending it away.

—

Ken is wiser than me, by far, and back in October of last year when I first hit ‘Send’ on the original manuscript, I spent the entire day picking at my cuticles, questioning, doubting, fearing the worst.

What if I missed something? What if I left something out, something necessary, something the book needed to have a pulse or a rhythm or at the very least, a good and working PLOT?!

And because Ken is wiser than me, by far, he said this:

A book is never finished. It’s simply published.

—

And of course he was right. Of course a book isn’t finished until its writer is finished, but it is published, and in this case, will be published, on January 10th, to be exact.

I’m scared to say this, but I like this book. I love this book. I think (hope) you’ll love this book, too.

p.s. There are these things called launch teams (I’m evergreen; bear with me), and if you’d like to help promote the book in any way/shape/form, please join here by next Wednesday!

SaveSaveSaveSaveSave

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/11/chasing-slow/feed/34http://designformankind.com/2016/11/chasing-slow/Come and Seehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/FFm-kVFCyi8/
Thu, 17 Nov 2016 08:48:10 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43277The invitation was simple, exciting. Meet us in Chicago. Visit Delta. Take a trolley tour. See the sights, document the inspiration, transform a bathroom around your findings. A day of inspired design, the email had read. But, of course, it was more. — On an otherwise cloudy morning, fueled by coffee and acai bowls, our […]]]>

The invitation was simple, exciting. Meet us in Chicago. Visit Delta. Take a trolley tour. See the sights, document the inspiration, transform a bathroom around your findings.

A day of inspired design, the email had read.

But, of course, it was more.

—

On an otherwise cloudy morning, fueled by coffee and acai bowls, our group boards the trolley. We weave through downtown with a docent pointing out historical architecture, cultural standbys. We snap photos. We spot Trump’s distinct building, swap political perspectives. We marvel at the Aqua Tower, The Rookery, Buckingham Fountain.

I realize I feel small.

In the Chicago Cultural Building, I ask our docent about the opulent tile work overhead.

Quotes from famous literature and philosophers, all organized by region, he says pointing to the opulent ceiling.

Anything from Aristotle? I ask.

Ah, a fan! he says with a smile. Me too. “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

That’s beautiful, I say, following the group down the marble corridor.

—

We move through the day quickly, buzzing, chatting with excitement. Lunch — oysters and rosé — is as decadent as the architecture we’ve toured, the conversations rich from the morning’s inspiration. By the time we land back at the hotel with flushed cheeks and windblown hair, our minds, bellies and camera rolls are filled to the brim.

—

In a quiet conference room, we are given our assignment:

One hour to create a mood board of our bathroom remodel, gleaning inspiration from the sights and sounds of Chicago.

I get to work as I scroll through my photos, eyes breezing past baroque tiling, gilded frames, extravagant finishing. The Buckingham Fountain. The Rookery. Aqua Tower.

Opulence. Adornment. Luxury.

It was all so magnificent.It was all so magnificently not me.

—

Earlier in the morning, as we ate breakfast in the Delta showroom, advice was offered on style and how we might come to discover our own.

Ask questions. Experiment. Consider boundaries.

And lastly: Know yourself.

—

The group begins adhering and arranging their boards. We work alongside one another as we take turns wielding the hot glue gun, passing scissors back and forth, swapping washi tape.

I look around at the boards of my peers and notice ornate tile work, brass bathroom fixtures. I see gilded elements, chandeliers – the same extravagance visible in the morning’s architecture.

I glance at the materials I’d brought from home: the minimalist patterns, the subway tile, the tearsheet of Delta’s matte black faucet. How can I blend my own understated style with the morning’s lavish inspiration?

I realize, for the second time today, I feel small.

But then, I think of the Chicago Cultural Center, of our docent, of Aristotle.

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

—

I scroll through my camera roll a second time.

I survey the symmetry, the lines, the angles. Bright adornments against a darkened concrete city outside. Contrast. I witness the very boldness it takes to stand firm, dripping with original decadence in a sea of skyscrapers, of cold metal, of stark glass.

Here I am in my splendor, announced each landmark without apology. Come and see.

In a single instant, I begin to understand a simple truth.

The difficulty is not in finding your style.
The difficulty is in being bold enough to display it.

—

As I put together the finishing touches of my board, as I add a final strand of greenery, I realize the common thread that morning wasn’t glamour, glitz, decadence. It wasn’t details or intricacies.

It was individuality.

The knowing of one’s self, the knowing of one’s style, and the boldness to allow it.

Wisdom.

—

Later that night, over soup and salmon, a new friend asks me when I’d be heading home to the family.

First thing tomorrow, I say. I miss them.

Same, she says, and we find ourselves in a conversation about work and home, priorities and time, motherhood and identity.

It took me a long time to see me as me, you know? I say.

Totally. But we were there all along, she says. Just covered under a few layers of mashed banana.

We laugh, and dessert arrives.

—

Sometimes, finding your style is finding yourself.

Here I am in my splendor.Come and see.

Other times, it’s realizing it was never really lost at all.

—

This essay was written for Delta Faucet. Here’s to inspired living for all, and stay tuned for part two, where I’ll be bringing my inspiration board to life in my own space!

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/11/finding-your-style/Almost-Tweetshttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/XkjwKqNI9ao/
http://designformankind.com/2016/11/almost-tweets/#commentsMon, 14 Nov 2016 10:29:45 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43310When you get hacked on a Sunday morning, the Sunday of the week you’re officially announcing your book to your own little world, you feel a bit ill. I’m working to fix it, but for now, steer clear of my Twitter page, OK? I’ll meet you here (or here) instead. For fun, while I wait […]]]>

When you get hacked on a Sunday morning, the Sunday of the week you’re officially announcing your book to your own little world, you feel a bit ill.

]]>http://designformankind.com/2016/11/almost-tweets/feed/8http://designformankind.com/2016/11/almost-tweets/Right Herehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/DesignForMankind/~3/M0P3jyylTqU/
http://designformankind.com/2016/11/life-lessons-from-kids/#commentsThu, 10 Nov 2016 11:00:32 +0000http://designformankind.com/?p=43234Parenthood in one sentence: “Where did the _______ go?” — Four times this morning: Where’d the dog leashes go? Where’s the almond flour I just bought? Where’s your blanket? (In the dishwasher, Mom.) Why? (It was just really really filthy, Mom.) And the last, the given, the one sure thing: Where did the time go? […]]]>

Parenthood in one sentence:

“Where did the _______ go?”

—

Four times this morning:
Where’d the dog leashes go?
Where’s the almond flour I just bought?
Where’s your blanket? (In the dishwasher, Mom.) Why? (It was just really really filthy, Mom.)

And the last, the given, the one sure thing: Where did the time go?

—

We plan an early Friendsgiving in these parts every November, usually of the pajamas/pizza/board games/paper plates variety. But this year, there’s a new baby to celebrate and the kids are older and I don’t know, should we make it fancy? Festive? A real grown-up celebration?

—

On a sunless day, I search for the crushed linen tablecloth, my grandmother’s flatware, the flameless candles. I preheat the oven and chop the rosemary. Bee runs into the kitchen.

Can I borrow the flashlight? she asks.

Right drawer, I say.

I fold napkins, wipe down wine glasses, check the time. Bee reappears in a flash.

I think it’s out of batteries, she says.

Where did the batteries go?

—

She tells me she’s having a dinner party with her friends, with her very favorite stuffed animals. There are books and snacks and a flashlight for reading and Mom, would you like to join us? We’re making shadow puppets!

I know to say yes. I know the dinner party prep can wait, that our friends won’t mind a slight delay, that these moments, these surprise invitations will come fewer, more far between as the years pass.

I would love to, I say. But I need to finish dinner.

—

The afternoon fades; our friends will be here soon. I switch the playlist to The Sweeplings, reach for lip gloss, change a diaper, pour the merlot. As I clean the counters and ready a cheese plate, I see the pile of unused batteries on the dining room table. How long had it been since I replaced the flashlight batteries? Three years? Four?

Where did the time go?

—

I know I’ll ask myself this again and again and again. I know time will pass sooner than I realize, sooner than I’d like. I know we’ll all have grown the next time I polish my grandmother’s old forks, the next time I replace the flashlight batteries. I know the minutes between will slip by unnoticed, unmarked.

Unless, of course…

—

I wash my hands, dry them on a flour sack, head to the dining room.

Changed my mind. I say, peeking beneath the linen tablecloth. Is there still room for me at your party?

(There is.)

—

Later, our friends barrel through the door, cheeks flushed from the cold. The unmade cheese plate is made and we sip wine as we recount busy weeks filled with opportunities both seized and given away. Dinner is served, tasted, devoured. Conversations are rich and scattered, dotted with frequent interruptions from toddlers. Marriage and Syria and Mom, did you know frogs don’t even have outside ears?

The kids clean their plates, scamper off to the basement to play. We finish our sentences, our wine. Soon, it’s midnight.

Where did the time go?

—

I know what my mother would say. As a child, when I’d lose anything – Where are my swim goggles? I can’t find my science book! – she’d respond simply:

Where did you last see it?

—

And I suppose that’s the answer, isn’t it? To see it. To pay attention. To watch time march on with or without our involvement, with or without our permission. To notice when we change the flashlight batteries, to acknowledge a toddler’s tea party invitation, to say Yes, yes, I’ll be there – can I bring you a scone?

To let the cheese plate go unmade, to crawl under a dining room table and rehearse the best alligator shadow puppet there ever was.

To be able to answer the simplest question – Where did you last see it? – with the simplest answer:

Right here.

This essay was written for RAYOVAC® Alkaline Batteries (don’t forget to stock up!), available at major retailers; visit here for online for online and in-store availability. Thanks for reading!